


Mycroft's story

by ko_writes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Kidlock, Story within a Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-11
Updated: 2014-09-11
Packaged: 2018-02-17 00:19:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2290028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ko_writes/pseuds/ko_writes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is seven years old and hates storms. Mycroft will know what to do! Sherlock goes into Mycroft's room and Mycroft has written a story just for Sherlock to try and calm him down. Contains Mystrade: but not slash. I don't own the characters. Please review!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The storm

The storm outside was fierce. The rain battered the large windows; the thunder echoed through the many rooms; and the lighting illuminated the expensive gold embellishments on the ceilings.

Little Sherlock hated storms. He knew it was silly; he was seven, not a baby. He shouldn’t be scared. A loud thunder clap drew him out of his thoughts. His brown curls gradually appeared from under the thick duvet until he held the seam tight below his chin.

His brother would know what to do. Mycroft was very intelligent, which little Sherlock envied; but it did have its uses.

He leapt out of his gargantuan bed and ran into Mycroft’s room; he did not want to be in the hallway when he heard the next thunder clap. “My! My!” he squeaked.

“Sherlock? You should be in bed…” Mycroft sighed from beneath the mountain of warm blankets on his bed.

“I… I…” the little boy stuttered.

“You were scared by the storm…” Mycroft sat up, analysing his brother.

Little Sherlock wanted to deny it; but his brother knew when he was lying and he was too tired to come up with a good excuse. “Yeah…”

“And what do you want me to do about it?” Mycroft smiled smugly.

“I just wanted some company…” at that moment, a bright light invaded the room, accompanied by a loud rumble. “Ah!” Sherlock dove into Mycroft’s bed, under the five blankets.

“It’s alright, Sherlock…” Mycroft laid a hand on the quivering lump that was his little brother.

“Too bright… Too loud…” the lump mumbled. Mycroft knew this was why his brother was scared of storms; Sherlock’s senses were heighted and this sometimes caused Sherlock pain.

“I know, brother mine. It’s gone now, though. I’ll draw the curtains and put the lights on…” Mycroft heaved himself out of the warmth of the blankets. “All done. You can come out from there now. I know wool irritates and hurts you…”

“Not as much as the storm…” Sherlock peered out from beneath the blankets and, as soon as he saw it was all clear, he kicked them as far away as he could and scooted up the bed so his back was against the headboard.

“Better?” Mycroft asked, his satin voice attempting to soothe.

“A little…” Sherlock admitted.

“Do you want me to get the silk blanket out of my wardrobe while I’m up?” It wasn’t really a blanket, just a piece of silk that was better than nothing if his brother became agitated.

“Yes, please.” Sherlock’s knees were drawn up to his chest, his small arms hugging them even closer. Mycroft smiled. His brother looked a little adorable when he was scared; which was a guilty thought as Mycroft never wished his brother to be scared or in pain like he was now. He held a corner of the blue silk and allowed it to fall beautifully out of the old oak wardrobe. He carefully draped it around Sherlock’s small, already thin, frame.

“Do you feel ok in it?” Mycroft asked. Sometimes, even the silk was too much.

“I’m fine.” Sherlock took a shaky breath, “I just hate storms.”

“I know, brother mine.” An idea came to Mycroft, “Do you want me to tell you a story?”

“My, I’ve read all the books in this house many times; I’m bored of them all now…” Sherlock hung his head.

“What if I know one you haven’t read…?” Mycroft grabbed a large notepad off of his desk.

“Have you tried to write a story for me, My?” Sherlock’s eyes filled with intrigue, his brother did, on occasion, have a certain way with words; he often rearranged sentences in the books he read to Sherlock to make them more interesting.

“I have. I’ll go and get changed into some silk night clothes and we can have a little read…” Mycroft pulled on the privacy partition so he did not have to leave Sherlock alone while he changed from his flannel pyjamas into something Sherlock would be able to tolerate slightly easier.

Sherlock stared at the Rubik’s Cube on his brother’s desk. He counted the number of red squares he could see, then blue squares, then white squares, and so on until his brother was finally dressed.

Mycroft emerged from the partition and sat down on the edge of his bed, Sherlock shuffled closer to his brother.

...

There was once a detective by the name of Sherlock Holmes –

...

“You used my name?” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed at his brother.

“Yes, because –”

“Because it makes me identify even more with the character; etcetera, etcetera… Dull.” Sherlock whined.

“Not quite. I thought of this detective and I kept thinking of you, Sherlock. Because I think you’d make a spectacular detective…” Mycroft smiled.

“I still want to be a pirate, Mycroft…” Sherlock frowned.

“We’ll see, bother. We’ll see. Shall I continue?” Sherlock nodded.

...

This detective lived in a small, dank flat with no company except a skull called Bill –

...

“I call him Billy, not Bill.” Sherlock corrected.

“Well, the detective is grown up. He now calls him Bill.” Mycroft smiled at Sherlock’s continual interruptions. It would have annoyed anyone else, but Mycroft loved Sherlock; especially his bluntness and, what others would consider to be, rudeness.

“Ok.”

...

Now, Sherlock Holmes was alone. He didn’t mind it that way; in fact, he liked it. He never really got along with people and people never got along with him. He was called a freak, a weirdo, a psychopath –

...

“Thank you for increasing my confidence, Mycroft…” Sherlock mumbled.

“But…” Mycroft continued.

...

That was only because they did nothing to attempt to understand the genius. The brilliance of this man glowed around him, but was invisible to all the lesser mortals, the goldfish, that referred to themselves as his peers. Sherlock Holmes wondered, in a small part of the back of his mind, if he would always be alone; and if that was actually what he wanted. This was before he met another curious individual, in his own right known as Dr John Watson. Dr Watson was not a genius, he did not see the same things as the detective, but he saw the brilliance of the detective and came the closest to understanding him than anyone else ever had – that even included the detective’s brother –

...

“He has a brother too?” Sherlock’s large eyes bulged slightly.

“But of course.” Mycroft smiled.

“Tell me about him.” Sherlock ordered.

“I was about to…”

...

The detective’s brother, Mycroft, was a cowardly man who spent his time behind a desk. He was actually quite a powerful government man; despite what he would tell anyone who asked. He would dismiss them with lies of it being a ‘minor position’; but in truth, this man could have operated as the British government all on his own. Sherlock Holmes knew this, but Mycroft always tried to keep the lie.

...

“You had to put yourself in it, didn’t you My?” Sherlock smirked.

“I could not resist temptation.”

“You aren’t a coward…”

“Why, I’m afraid I beg to differ, brother mine.”

“You aren’t! You’re braver than I am!” A thunder clap sounded and Sherlock grabbed his brother into a tight squeeze. “It’s too loud…” Sherlock thought.

“Well, you’re only seven; and you’re ten times as brave as I was when I was seven. I don’t think I’d be able to cope with those painfully heightened senses of yours. You are a lot braver than me.” Sherlock grinned and stared at the floor, shyly blushing. “Shall I continue?”

...

The two brothers did not get along. The younger brother, Sherlock, had resented the elder for his higher intelligence. Sherlock could not shake the feeling that his brother watched over him to show off; to continually make him feel as if he could not function without his brother looming over his head, always there to point out his mistakes and call him ‘stupid’ and ‘idiot’ and ‘unintelligent’. But this was simply not true. Mycroft Holmes worried for his brother constantly, it felt almost crippling. The thought that the news of his brother’s death could come any time, any day if he followed the wrong criminal down the wrong alley; it made him ill and weak with worry; though he would never show it.

...

“Surely they could just talk to each other, make things better for both of them.”

“This is where their relationship differs from ours, brother mine; and the multiple complications show themselves…”

...

When I say Mycroft was ill and weak with worry, I did not mean it metaphorically. Mycroft was very physically ill. He could not go outside for very long and when he did; he took his umbrella. The umbrella, unlike what you might think, was not taken in case of rain; it was used as a crutch or cane. There were times when he was so ill that he was bed-ridden; unable to summon the energy to move his legs.

He still managed to complete his official duties. He would often just about manage to attend meetings; he had seated himself before anyone entered and would only stand to greet the various dignitaries if it was on a good day. If not, he said that he had been injured by something-or-other. No one outside of Mycroft’s manor house knew of his illness.

His ill health meant that he could hardly talk to Sherlock; which only worsened their terrible relationship… Sherlock thought he just didn’t care anymore; which hurt him more than he cared to admit. Now, it wasn’t only Sherlock who had been alone. Mycroft Holmes was now the abandoned Holmes…

...

“Poor Mycroft!” Sherlock gasped, tears in his eyes.

“I didn’t think you’d care so much for the fictional Mycroft, Sherlock,” Mycroft’s heart warmed at the emotions that lay thickly on his brother’s face.

“Of course I do! He’s you… sort of. Don’t ever get that ill, My!”

“I’m afraid I can’t promise, Sherlock. No one can promise that. But I’ll certainly try.”

Content with his brother’s almost-promise, Sherlock shuffled closer and leant on his brother’s arm as he continued his story.

...

Mycroft was very ill, as we know. But, one day, he met someone. This someone was his little brother’s boss; a man known as DI Greg Lestrade. This meeting had been set up by Mycroft in an attempt to get Sherlock to contact him. Mycroft was getting worse; he was even weaker, pale and awfully thin. He now did not care if his brother knew he was unwell; in fact, he needed Sherlock to know. He had called his brother to ask if he could come to his house; but had been dismissed.

This was in the time that Dr Watson had not come into Sherlock’s life yet; so the good DI was the closest thing Sherlock had to a friend. Mycroft knew that DI Lestrade would advise Sherlock to see him.

...

“What happened?” Sherlock gasped.

“All in good time, Sherlock.”

...

DI Lestrade walked into the large room that kept Mycroft his prisoner. The bed was quite large but looked even wider when compared to Mycroft’s thin body in the centre.

“Ah, DI Lestrade…” Mycroft acknowledged hoarsely as his nurse helped him to sit up. The pillows were quickly rearranged for Mycroft to sit up unassisted.

“Mr Holmes?” the DI asked innocently. He was muscular with silver and grey hair that combined to appear as salt and pepper; which is more beautiful than it sounds. There was stubble on his chin and crow’s feet capped his hazel eyes in a perfect way. This man was beautiful. And Mycroft Holmes thought so.

...

“Hang on! You were with a boy called Greg Lestrade the other day!”

“Yes…?”

“Is he your –?”

“Moving swiftly on…”

...

“I am he.” Mycroft answered, “I am afraid that I am taken rather ill at the moment. This is actually why I called you here. Please tell my brother to come. I’ve tried to contact him, but we don’t have the greatest relationship. I need to tell him I’m unwell. Though doctors can be wrong they’ve given me very little time if I keep deteriorating.”

“I’m sorry…” DI Lestrade apologised.

“Don’t be. I have done this to myself. I worry too much for him; it has even degraded my health –” Mycroft could not continue as a violent coughing fit invaded his lungs and throat.

“You shouldn’t be worried, Mycroft Holmes. He is in capable enough hands. No harm will come to him, I promise you.” Gregory Lestrade always kept his promises.

“This may seem an odd request…”Mycroft began before more coughing interrupted, “Would you consider staying? Your presence is… quite comforting.” Mycroft believed that this man would not stay. He was aware how terrible he looked; so skinny and his face ragged with sleepless nights.

“Of course.” The DI answered, which surprised Mycroft. I shall not bore you with details about what they had discussed or what had happened; but a unique love began between the two. Mycroft, nurtured and cared for by Greg, slowly began to recover from his near-death state. Unfortunately, the damage was done to the Holmes brothers’ relationship.

...

“Goodnight, Sherlock.” Mycroft smiled.

“That was it? I know that wasn’t it! Come on, tell me!” Sherlock demanded.

“You need to go to sleep, Sherlock. It’s the end of the introduction anyway. I’ll read you the next chapter tomorrow.”

“Aw!” Sherlock whined.

“I know, I’m a horrible brother…” Mycroft smiled as he turned off the lights.

“No, My!”

“I was joking Sherlock.”

“Oh.”

“Go to sleep…”

That’s exactly what they did.


	2. They just knew

Sherlock stared at Mycroft. It was the following evening and he was dying to hear the next chapter of his story. Mycroft was busy for the minute, though. The woollen blankets were replaced by Sherlock’s duvet to make him more comfortable and warm.

  
“There we are…” Mycroft smiled holding up a corner of it so Sherlock could shuffle in. When he did so, Mycroft slipped into the other side of the bed with the notebook; allowing Sherlock to shuffle closer.

  
“Are you going to tell me about the detective now?” Sherlock asked in a slight moan.

  
“Yes. I’m sorry if the introduction focused more on the brother – but there was simply more to tell…” he shrugged.

  
“Ok.”

  
“Shall I begin?” Sherlock nodded in reply.

  
...

  
Sherlock stared at the wall as if it had offended him. The newly painted smiley face grinned tauntingly at him. A shot rang out. Then two. Then three. The gun Sherlock held in his hand had become warm and was smoking slightly.

  
“Bad day?” asked John strolling casually into the room.

  
“Bored!” The detective declared.

  
“A case will turn up Sherlock…” John tried to reason.

  
“Not soon enough,” was the answer he was given.

  
The detective had nothing to hold his attention for long. Even his experiments had reached a dead end recently –

 

...

  
“Experiments?!” Sherlock grinned, eyes sparkling.

  
“Of course. How else is the detective meant to learn new things that no one else knows?” Mycroft smirked.

 

...

  
At that moment, the ringtone from Sherlock’s phone filled the air. He scrambled to grab it quickly; totally out of character for the usually aloof man.

  
“Sherlock Holmes,” He stated, with a feeling of knowing the man, at the other end of the phone.

  
“I thought you might call…” the voice sulked. Jim Moriarty; mass murderer and pyromaniac.

  
“I knew you’d call me. What do you want? I’m not a great person to start an obsession over…”

  
“Too late, daring,” Sherlock could just hear the smirk behind these words, “I just wanted to say that I’ve left a little present for you. I’ll text you a clue.”

  
“Catch you later.” Sherlock muttered through gritted teeth.

  
“No, you won’t!” teased Moriarty. The line went dead.

  
“Who was that?” John asked.

  
“A new enemy. A spider in the center of a web that we two have been dismantling without even noticing for a while. One Jim Moriarty.” Sherlock smiled more than he should have, “he’s left us a getting-to-know-you present.”

  
“Knowing the people you call enemies; except for Mycroft; it’ll be a body!” John gasped.

  
“Exactly! Oh, it’s Christmas! Finally and end to this dreadful boredom!” Sherlock laughed, slightly delirious and manic.

  
“Try and remember that someone’s dead, Sherlock,” John sighed.

  
“Not good?”

  
“A bit not good, yeah.” John internally chuckled. Much as he wouldn’t care to admit; he found the social naivety the detective had was… sweet in an odd way.

  
Before John could even think, his coat was tugged onto him and he was pulled into a taxi. They had the text. Lestrade was informed and they were on their way to London Bridge.

  
...

  
“Why are they going?” Sherlock asked, head cocked to the side.

  
“They are very brave and Sherlock never makes good decisions when he is bored…”

  
“Is it a trap?!” Sherlock’s eyes were wide, his mouth gaping.

  
“You have to wait and see,” Mycroft grinned.

  
...

  
The scene was as described; a bloody body hung from the middle of London Bridge by a rope. Every now and then drops of blood or pieces of rotted flesh would drop into the water of the Thames colouring it faintly pink as it raced by.

  
...

  
“Cool!” Sherlock grinned. Mycroft smiled in return.

  
...

  
Greg Lestrade stood near the edge of the bridge, hands on the railing, the icy wind cooling his face and closed eyes. The peace before the storm that would ensue once Sherlock had arrived and Sargent Sally Donovan and the forensic tech, Phillip Anderson made their presences known. The three never came together peacefully so Lestrade would enjoy the serenity while it lasted.

  
John and Sherlock’s taxi pulled up by the bridge. Sherlock smiled the type of smile he could only muster at the prospect of a particularly interesting murder. The game was on. Jim Moriarty would fall, even if that meant he had to fall with him.

  
“Sherlock!” Lestrade called, “we’re about to hoist up the body. If you need to make any deductions; better be quick.”

  
“Oh God!” Sherlock sprinted to the crime scene; hoping that it would be enough at that moment.

  
“So how are you getting on with… What’s his name again?” John asked.

  
“Myc. Things are going great! He was, unfortunately, very ill when we first met; but he’s been getting better! Which is amazing considering he was… near the end.” Lestrade managed a small, unsure smile.

  
“Real Hollywood thing for you two, then?” John teased.

  
...

  
“Boring!” Sherlock declared.

  
“Alright, I’ll skip ahead to the deductions and leave out the touchy-feely stuff; ok?” Sherlock nodded his approval.

  
...

  
“The perpetrator was left handed, judging by the way he or she tied the knot; but that’s all I know… it’s unsettling; I don’t like not knowing…” Sherlock sighed, “may as well examine the body…” Lestrade only gave a grunt, nursing his black eye –

  
...

  
“Wait!” Sherlock insisted, “how did Lestrade get a black eye?!”

  
“If you had let me continue, brother mine, you would know,” Mycroft grinned smugly.

  
“Can you go back, please?” Sherlock asked.

  
“Yes, of course.”

  
...

  
“So how are you getting on with… What’s his name again?” John asked.

  
“Myc. Things are going great! He was, unfortunately, very ill when we first met; but he’s been getting better! Which is amazing considering he was… near the end.” Lestrade managed a small, unsure smile.

  
“Real Hollywood thing for you two, then?” John teased.

  
“I guess you can say that, mate…” Greg laughed.

  
“Hang on…!” Sherlock had overheard, something Greg hoped he wouldn’t but nothing escaped the great Sherlock Holmes. “Myc? Very ill? Near death? So help me, Lestrade; if you’re talking about my brother –!”

  
“I thought you two didn’t get on?!” Lestrade interrupted.

  
“He’s still my –”

  
...

  
“It was at this point, the detective used some very colourful language indeed; that should never be uttered by anyone,” Mycroft explained.  
“I’m mature enough to hear it! I’m seven!” Sherlock whined.  
“I’m not going to repeat the detective’s vile language for you, Sherlock…”  
“Aw!”

  
...

  
“Dear God, Sherlock! Hold that disgusting tongue of yours!” John gasped. Sherlock hardly ever swore, so he was caught off guard by such language.

  
“Sorry you had to hear that, John. But, Lestrade; I thought you a better man!”

  
“Sherlock –” It was then that the detective punched the Detective Inspector square in the eye.

  
Anderson and Donovan ran to Lestrade’s aid. “Sir! Are you alright? What are you doing freak?!” Donovan snarled.

  
“It’s fine, Donovan,” Lestrade tried to get her sight off Sherlock. He knew she would tear him apart like a predator would their pray.

  
“But sir! He just assaulted you!” Anderson gasped.

  
“I would have done the exact same thing if I were him though…” Lestrade attempted to diffuse the situation.

  
“But… sir –”

  
“No, Donovan!”

  
“Could you at least give us an explanation… Sir?” Anderson tried to control the sneer in his voice.

  
“I’ll give you and explanation!” Sherlock yelled, John holding him back with the strength of the army doctor he was –

  
...

  
“You neglected that piece of information, Mycroft,” Sherlock tutted.

  
“I’m dreadfully sorry I did not tell you sooner, brother,” Mycroft laughed. It seemed both Sherlocks seemed quite taken with the fictional John Watson.

  
...

  
“Sherlock’s brother and I are together!” Lestrade yelled before Sherlock had the chance.

  
“Oh my…” came a frail, yet familiar, voice from behind Donovan, “Seems I have come at an awkward moment.”

  
“Myc!” Lestrade called, running to his boyfriend, locking him in a tight embrace. Mycroft stumbled a little as he still relied on his umbrella to stand and walk. “You should really be inside…”

  
“I had to see you, Gregory. I couldn’t stand to be alone with only the walls for company anymore. It was driving me to insanity!”

  
Sherlock snorted. “Judas! Both of you are traitors! Mycroft, our relationship is shaky at best; do you think I would take the news of your relationship with my… whatever he is well?! And Lestrade! This is my brother, no matter how terrible a relationship we have!”

  
“Sherlock. Please stop…” Mycroft sighed weakly, clutching his forehead.

  
“Sherlock, I –”

  
“Save it, Lestrade!”

  
“It’s different! I –”

  
“I don’t want to hear it!”

  
“Sherlock, I love him!” The whole homicide department stared, slack-jawed at Lestrade and the mystery man who accompanied him. Lestrade didn’t care. He turned to face Mycroft, hand in hand, and delicately whispered “I love you…”

  
“I love you too, Gregory,” A slight smile played on the weak man’s lips.

  
“You should really go, though. I’m not going to let you relapse,” Lestrade said defiantly.

  
“In a minute.” Mycroft took a shaky step forward and wrapped the Detective Inspector in a tender embrace. This was what they needed.

  
...

  
There was a knock on the bedroom door and the hinges groaned when the door opened. It was the Lestrade boy. “Oh! Mycroft! Sorry, I rang the doorbell but no one answered… The door was open, so I thought I would just come and find you.”

  
“It’s quite alright, Gregory. Wait a minute… Sherlock, why did you not tell me that the doorbell sounded?!”

  
“Please don’t shout…” Sherlock whimpered, “It hurts…”

  
“I’m sorry, brother mine. But why didn’t you tell me?”

  
“I was really interested in the story you were telling me. I was being selfish…”

  
“Myc; if you didn’t hear it, why should your little brother?” Greg was careful not to speak too loud for the little boy’s benefit.

  
“Sorry, Gregory. Sherlock has heightened senses and finds the doorbell quite painful at the usual volume; so I’ve decreased the volume and hoped that Sherlock would tell me when it rings…”

  
“I usually do…” Sherlock squeaked, causing his pain to sharpen slightly as he was still not quite recovered from the night before.

  
“It’s ok, Sherlock. I shall leave the little story here, I think. I’ll read you more tomorrow.”

  
“Please… I want to hear more.”

  
“No, Sherlock. You shall hear the rest tomorrow.” Mycroft whispered.

  
“But I want to know more about the body…” Sherlock moaned. Greg raised an eyebrow.

  
“As I said, I will tell you more about the detective tomorrow.”

  
“You said that yesterday… And today still seemed all about Lestrade and –”

  
“Goodnight Sherlock.” Mycroft quickly, but quietly, interrupted. He placed a kiss on his brother’s forehead.

  
The lights were turned off and the door closed behind Mycroft and Greg. “I’m afraid my room is occupied. Would you care to move to the drawing room?” Mycroft asked in a hushed voice.

  
“Of course. When do I ever say no?”

  
“Shall we?”

  
“I think it’s nice that you wrote your brother a story…” Greg smiled.

  
“How did you –”

  
“Why else would you be reading a story from a notebook?”

  
“Of course you noticed that. It was obvious. I’m beginning to think that you make me into somewhat of an idiot, Gregory…” Mycroft laughed quietly.

  
“How can I when you are such a genius?”

  
They looked into each other’s eyes. They just knew.


	3. London bridge is falling down

“I saw you and Greg kiss yesterday,” Sherlock stated.

“And why were you out of bed?” Mycroft countered. He didn’t care that Sherlock knew about the new romance between himself and the rugby player; it was fairly obvious what his feelings were towards Greg from the story; he was more annoyed that Sherlock was out of bed when he was supposed to be sleeping.

“I was curious,” Sherlock covered his amused expression with one of innocence, “I wanted to see if the romantic attachment between Mycroft and Lestrade were purely fictional or not.”

“You could gather my affection toward Gregory from the story, Sherlock,” Mycroft sighed.

“I couldn’t tell if he reciprocated in real life…” Sherlock allowed a small smirk to creep onto his features.

“Well, I didn’t know he did until last night…” Mycroft stared dreamily into the distance while revelling in the clear, fresh memory.

“You’re being oddly sentimental, My…” Sherlock narrowed his gaze but still had a smirk on his lips.

“It’s called love, brother mine. ‘When Love speaks, the voice of all the gods makes heaven drowsy with the harmony’.” Mycroft quoted. Sherlock only gave him a questioning look. “It’s Shakespeare, brother mine. It’s from Love's Labour's Lost.”

“Come on! I want to hear more of the story!” Sherlock insisted.

“I see you’ve made a full recovery from the storm…” Mycroft smiled.

“Mostly, I still have a bit of a headache, though,” Sherlock shrugged, “I can’t even deduce what you see in that Greg boy. What’s so brilliant? Are you just doing it to get a reaction?”

“God, no! Sherlock that is a horrible thing to even suggest! ‘Doubt thou the stars are fire; Doubt that the sun doth move; Doubt truth to be a liar; But never doubt I love’. Another Shakespeare quote Sherlock didn’t know. “It’s from Hamlet, Sherlock…”

“I’m sorry…” Sherlock sulked.

“It’s alright. Go up to your bedroom and get ready for bed, I’ll be up in a minute,” Mycroft didn’t have to tell Sherlock twice, the little boy sprinted up the stairs, “Be careful!” Mycroft called, he chuckled to himself. To think, little Sherlock lit up with glee at the thought of a story that Mycroft had written.

Mycroft finished the crossword he had been attempting while Sherlock asked questions and insisted on talking to him. Mycroft probably would have finished a while ago had it not been for his little brothers tireless chit-chat. He did love Sherlock, but the child could not stay still or silent!

With a sigh, Mycroft folded the paper and trudged up the cold steps barefoot and in cold silk pyjamas. Sherlock had better sleep in his own bed tonight; Mycroft craved the warmth of the five woollen blankets he usually had.

Mycroft opened the door to Sherlock's room. He wasn’t there. Oh no. He stormed down the corridor to his own bedroom and found Sherlock lying in his bed. He sighed. “Sherlock, I want you to sleep in your own room tonight.”

“Aw! Why?” Sherlock whined.

“Because you’re seven, not a baby.”

“Fine.”

Sherlock jumped off the bed and sulked all the way to his bedroom with Mycroft’s hand firmly on his slumped shoulder. He preferred Mycroft’s bed for some reason; it was probably because the five woollen blankets kept it very warm.

Sherlock reluctantly climbed into his own bed and leaned against the headboard. “Shall I start?” Mycroft asked. Sherlock nodded.

...

“You should really go, though. I’m not going to let you relapse,” Lestrade said defiantly.

“In a minute.” Mycroft took a shaky step forward and wrapped the Detective Inspector in a tender embrace. This was what they needed.

“I hate to interrupt Romeo and Julius; but I think you’ve broke Sherlock…” John interrupted. The detective’s face twitched oddly, stained a bright crimson colour and was babbling incoherent word fragments over and over. “Calm down, mate.” The doctor smiled.

“How am I going to calm down?! What if you saw your boss hugging your sister?!” Sherlock growled.

“I wouldn’t be that bothered. It’s not normal, Sherlock…” John place a hand on his friend’s shoulder which was quickly shrugged off.

“I’d better be going Sherlock,” Mycroft coughed slightly. Lestrade jumped into action, removing his coat and placing it over the ill man’s shoulders. “It isn’t necessary Gregory, you’ll be cold.” A growl from Sherlock told them not to continue their sentimental, cliché scene.

“Calm down, Sherlock. It’s sweet,” John smiled, forever the romantic.

“It is not sweet!” Sherlock mumbled, sulking.

“I will see you tomorrow, Myc. I’ll make sure you have some company…” Lestrade shot a glare at Sherlock who feigned and innocent expression. He helped Mycroft into the awaiting black car and kissed him goodbye, which sickened Sherlock no end.

“I think you better start making deductions, Sherlock…” Lestrade instructed. The detective muttered more vile language under his breath as he stormed towards the crime scene.

“Sorry about that…” John apologised.

“It’s alright. Can’t say I wouldn’t do the same if I were him. I should have told him before…” Lestrade sighed.

“I think I better get a cold compress for your eye, Greg. It’s starting to swell…” John led Lestrade to a police car and found the first aid kit.

“I bet it’ll look amazing tomorrow for my date!” Lestrade sulked, “And Myc will just ask why I didn’t tell him, he’ll be frustrated that he didn’t notice and he’ll be in a bad mood with Sherlock as well… It’s hard work! Looking after both Holmes brothers!”

“Mycroft isn’t going to make Sherlock disappear, is he?” John joked, hiding slight genuine concern.

“Don’t worry, Myc knows I’d never get anything solved if it wasn’t for Sherlock…” Lestrade paused for a moment, “Don’t tell Sherlock I say that, he really doesn’t need a bigger ego…”

“My lips are sealed, don’t worry Greg. Want to go for a pint later?” John asked.

“Nah, I need to get up early to make myself look almost respectable,” Greg smiled.

“That’s fine. I didn’t really expect anything else…” John shrugged.

Sherlock jogged back to John and Lestrade. “The perpetrator was left handed, judging by the way he or she tied the knot; but that’s all I know… it’s unsettling; I don’t like not knowing…” Sherlock sighed, “May as well examine the body…” Lestrade only gave a grunt, nursing his black eye.

The body was hauled over the railing and onto the bridge. Sherlock bent down beside the victim, as did John. “Time of death… approximately three weeks ago; but I’d get a second opinion to be sure as our bodies aren’t usually this… ripe.” John analysed.

“I’d say that isn’t right, John,” the detective sighed, “Look here.” He pointed to the victims hip.

“Ah… the body was allowed to decompose for three weeks –”

“Before it was frozen. I would say… flash frozen in liquid nitrogen.” The detective lit a cigarette.

“Oh no you don’t!” John tore the cigarette from Sherlock’s grip, “Cold turkey. You promised you’d stop.”

Sherlock only gave him a long-suffering sigh and stared at the body. “Wait… there’s something in the thoracic cavity. See this long, deep, post-mortem incision along the left pectoral… there is something metallic slotted inside.”

“Like a CD in one of those cardboard sleeves?” Anderson asked, ever the idiot.

“More like that than you think…” Sherlock pushed his gloved fingers into the laceration and retrieved the metallic object. “It actually is a CD.” He held up the gory disk for Lestrade to take. “It should be fine after wiping the blood and small pieces of flesh off of it…”

“I’ll get on it now,” Lestrade informed. He soon questioned since when Sherlock had become his superior.

The CD played in one of the squad cars. A familiar voice began to tunefully recite a well-known message.

 

“London Bridge is falling down,

Falling down, falling down.

London Bridge is falling down,

My fair Sherlock.

I am here to warn you,

Warn you, warn you.

I am here to warn you,

My fair Sherlock.

If you keep on meddling,

Meddling, meddling.

If you keep on meddling,

My fair Sherlock.

I will have to burn you,

Burn you, burn you.

I will have to burn you,

My fair Sherlock.

London bridge is falling down,

Falling down, falling down.

London bridge is falling down

I’ll see you soon, Sherlock.”

 

“Well… That was…” Sherlock began.

“Creepy? Befitting of a stalker? Psychopathic?” John was definitely unnerved by the ‘nursery rhyme’, “What does it mean?”

“I’m sure we’ll soon find out,” the detective’s gaze narrowed. Surely Moriarty was above this. The man played games; he wouldn’t leave the message if there was no meaning behind it.

“Sir?” A young officer; according to Anderson, she was a new addition to the department; tapped Sherlock on the shoulder. She had short blonde hair and green eyes that pierced Sherlock’s glasz ones. Sherlock made quick deductions about meaningless things, but did not pay them as much attention as he should –

...

“What do you mean, My?!” Sherlock gasped, “It was a trap, wasn’t it?!”

“I’m not saying anything to spoil it…”

...

“Sir, could you come with me?” the officer asked. She led Sherlock away from the crowd of civilians and Scotland Yard’s finest.

“What is this about, off –” Sherlock could not continue as a rag was forced into his mouth and a needle stabbed into his arm. The plunger was pushed and Sherlock was quickly removed from the scene.

John observed the crime scene. “What would Sherlock do? What would Sherlock do?” He thought over and over. It was then John saw it. “Get everyone off the bridge, now!!!” He ordered, making himself as loud as possible.

“Wait… Why, John?” Lestrade asked.

“There’s an explosive device on this bridge! London Bridge is falling down! He’s going to blow it up!” John quickly explained, “We need to get everyone back, now!”

“You heard him! Everyone get off the bridge!” Lestrade immediately began working with John to get everyone off of the bridge, “Call the bomb squad!”

“Where’s Sherlock?!” John yelled.

“He’s not here! I thought he was with you!” Lestrade panicked.

“I saw him go off with that new recruit…” Anderson spoke up.

“The blonde one?” John asked.

“Yeah.”

“What new recruit? There aren’t any additions this year, not unless someone quits or something… Oh no!” Lestrade’s face dropped. “Who told you she was a new recruit?!”

“No one… She had started attending crime scenes and she was in uniform so I assumed…”

...

“Oh no!” Sherlock squeaked, “Anderson really is an idiot!”

“Of course he is, brother mine. He really should not be allowed to deduce…” Mycroft smiled slightly.

...

“You idiot!” John roared, “If anything happens to Sherlock, I will hold you personally responsible!”

“And so will I! We need to check the security footage as soon as everyone is safe! Come on, Sherlock’s in danger but won’t be blown up anytime soon…” Lestrade continued to evacuate the bridge.

Anderson swallowed uncomfortably, “We hope!”

...

“That’s it for another night, brother mine. Go to sleep.” Mycroft kissed Sherlock’s forehead.

“Aw!” Sherlock fell into bed, annoyed at not being allowed to hear anymore.

“Sweet dreams…” Mycroft turned out the lights and closed the door. He was going to go back to his room and text Greg for a while, as per usual. Sherlock would hopefully get a good night’s sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock groaned from underneath the covers on his bed. Another migraine from another all too bright day.

Mycroft wasn’t feeling well that day either, thanks to some questionable oysters he’d consumed the night before on his first date with Greg. No one to comfort Sherlock today, then. Mycroft understood that it would be counterproductive to sit there with Sherlock vomiting into a bucket. For one, it was rather undignified; but it would cause Sherlock more distress. If an ordinary person could not stand the acidic, putrid smell; how could little Sherlock?

There was a soft knock on the door before it was carefully opened. It couldn’t be Mycroft; so who was it?

“Hello Sherlock,” the visitor whispered. It was Greg Lestrade. He must have come to see how Mycroft was; but why was he here?

“Too bright…” Sherlock mumbled. There was the sound of the door closing and the curtains being drawn.

“Myc asked me to come and check on you. He’s sorry he can’t look after you today, but in his defence, he’s pretty bad… Y’know, not dying, but not very happy…”

Brunette curls began to show themselves and were soon accompanied by big glasz eyes. “I want to see him; I wish I could…” Sherlock frowned.

“He said you’d say that,” Greg smiled, “he also said that you really shouldn’t see him because it would make you feel worse.”

“I know. I just wish I could tell him it’s ok and help him…” Sherlock sighed.

“I was helping him but he told me to come in and look after you instead. You both love each other a lot, don’t you?”

“Yeah. He loves you a lot too. He thinks a lot of you; thinks you’re smart and handsome and perfect…”

“How do you know that?”

“He told me.”

“He talks about me, does he?” Greg raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah. He even gave you a part in the story he wrote me. You’re a detective inspector with Scotland Yard.”

“Am I, now?”

“Yeah, you’re my boss. I’m a detective in Mycroft’s story. I have a best friend, an ex-army doctor who assists me on cases called John. John sounds interesting…”

“Is Mycroft in the story?”

“Yeah, but he’s ill; really ill; more ill than he is today. But he starts to get better after he meets you…” The little boy smiled.

“Does he?” Greg’s interest was piqued. Such romance and fairy-tale coming from someone like Mycroft.

“Yeah. You talk about him to John at a crime scene; but I didn’t know about you two and I over react and give you a black eye. Mycroft doesn’t know though; he’ll probably figure it out and get mad at the fictional me…”

“Did he think you’d give me a black eye?” Greg laughed softly and quietly.

“I’m older in his story and the detective is only based on me, apparently. But I saw you kissing and it didn’t bother me –”

“When did you see us kissing?” Greg blushed.

“I saw you in the drawing room…” Sherlock frowned, he knew that he’d said something a bit not good.

“You should have been in bed…” Greg smiled softly. This little boy was innocent and sweet, Greg didn’t want to be too harsh.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“It’s ok. I better get back to your brother… Is there anything you need?”

“Could you pass me my sunglasses; they’re on the table…” Sherlock asked. Greg handed them over and exited the room to get back to his very sick boyfriend.

…

Mycroft was in the exact place Greg left him; hunched over the porcelain toilet bowl, breathing heavily. “G-Greg…” he mumbled.

“I’m here, Myc. It’s alright,” Greg stroked Mycroft’s back as he reached for a cloth to clean his face.

“S-Sorry about this. We’re never eating there again…” Mycroft groaned.

“It’s alright; you can hardly help food poisoning...” Greg ran the cool flannel along Mycroft’s forehead.

“How’s Sherlock?” Mycroft managed to haul himself away from the toilet and against the white tiled wall.

Greg continued to clean his face. “In his room, under his duvet, wearing sunglasses. I drew the curtains for him; so he should be a little better now, with any luck.”

“I wish I could be in there with him…”

“He wishes he could be with you. You two really love each other; it’s nice,” Greg smiled.

“I’m glad to hear that. Sherlock doesn’t have any friends; he can’t go outside all that much and the children his age are far too loud. I’m glad he appreciates my efforts…” Mycroft smiled weakly.

“He said that you think a lot of me. Told me about the little story you were writing,” Greg smiled.

A pink hue descended on Mycroft’s cheeks, “how much?”

“It was beautiful, Myc,” Greg pressed kiss on the top of Mycroft’s head, “It was truly beautiful…”


	5. It's only a fairy-tale

The next evening, Mycroft was more or less recovered. He wasn’t stuck in the bathroom, anyway. Sherlock was starting to move around again; it was a cloudy day, which helped a lot. They were both a little frail, but could bring themselves to go about their day as they usually would.

Both brothers looked after each other that day. Mycroft managed to disable the doorbell completely, just to be sure; he called Greg to say that if he wanted to visit in the next few days to just let himself in. Sherlock promptly removed all shellfish from the house to avoid a repeat of the day before.

“Are you going to read to me this evening, Myc?” Sherlock asked sitting at the kitchen table. Mycroft was busy clearing away the soiled dinner plates.

“After I’m finished, Sherlock; I promise,” Mycroft smiled.

“I’ll go get ready for bed…” The chair ground against the wood floor of the kitchen and Sherlock whimpered.

“Well, that was a bad idea…” Mycroft smiled sympathetically.

“It’s ok…” Sherlock held a hand to his head. The pain would fade in a few minutes.

“Go on, I’ll be done in five minutes…” Mycroft smiled. Sherlock hurried up the staircase when his head stopped screaming. Mycroft smiled to himself, his little brother was definitely adorable when he was excited.

…

Sherlock sat in the middle of his, far too big, bed. The door opened to reveal Mycroft and his notebook. The door was swiftly closed on entrance and Mycroft sat on the edge of Sherlock’s bed. “Shall I begin?” Mycroft asked.

“Please!” Sherlock pressed his eyes closed at the pain. He should really stop getting so excited.  
...

“We have to get everyone off the bridge now!” John shouted, “Are we sure Sherlock isn’t still around here?!”

“We’re sure. Bomb disposal is in. They’ll do their best. Let’s just hope London Bridge doesn’t really come crashing down…” Lestrade bit his lip anxiously.

“What if it does?” Anderson questioned, confused by it all.

“For one, Myc’ll be put under a lot of stress that will make him worse, which he doesn’t need or deserve. Secondly, it would be a disaster for transportation and other things like that. Thirdly, it will take millions to fix which, in all honesty, the country doesn’t have right now. And finally, I’d probably get the sack; but that doesn’t matter so much…” Lestrade answered, running a hand through his hair.

“Lestrade’s right. The bomb squad need to succeed. With any luck; there isn’t any danger to civilians…” John added.

“No danger. The bridge has been evacuated and the area sectioned off…” Lestrade assured.

“Sherlock is our priority now. It was all a trap, and I’ll bet anything that he knew that; he came anyway because he was bored!” John sighed.

“It’s all my fault. If I hadn’t told you that she was a new recruit; Sherlock might have paid more attention to his deductions… I might not be smart, but I can tell there are days when he ignores them. I guess he’s just trying to make it easier… Y’know, being like he is…” Anderson sighed.

“Yes, you are correct! Do you want a medal, or something?!” John snapped.  
“John, calm down. We’ll find who did this…” Lestrade place a hand on John’s shoulder.  
“I already know who did this…” John narrowed his eyes, anger seemed to radiate off him in waves.  
“Who?” Anderson asked, suspense getting too much for him.  
“Moriarty.”  
...  
Sherlock had now begun to lean against his older brother. “What happened to Sherlock?” the little boy questioned.  
“I’m getting to that, brother mine,” Mycroft smiled gently.  
...  
Sherlock opened his eyes as his vision swam. It was obvious he’d been drugged but the haze in his mind refused to lift to allow him to deduce anything else.  
“Hello, Sherlock… How nice of you to come…” The figure in the shadows whispered.  
“Mor… Mor… Mori…” Sherlock tried to speak but the drug, whatever it was, refused the notion.  
“Shh… Don’t try to talk… Not yet…” Moriarty advised in what, for any other person, would be a soothing voice; but it seemed so sinister.  
“Why… Why… Why…” Sherlock wouldn’t listen to the murderer. He tried to question him, but the haze was still too thickly laid on his mind.  
“Why am I doing this?” Moriarty asked if that was what Sherlock meant, the detective nodded. “I’m so bored Sherlock. You aren’t the only one who gets bored. You shoot the wall; I kill people. We’re very similar, you and me. If you weren’t…” Moriarty twisted his face into a look of distaste, “On the side of the angels… I might have called you friend…”  
“I… I’m… I’m not… one of them… I might… might be… on their… side… But it… it doesn’t make me… one of them….” Sherlock struggled.  
“No… I suppose you aren’t; not quite anyway…” Moriarty smiled, “but I still can’t call you friend. We are on opposite sides, Sherlock. You fight for… good. I’m a little disappointed, actually. I think you’d make a great serial killer. Would never get caught, but still had a dramatic flair…”  
“I’d… I’d probably… want to… to get caught… too much…” Sherlock smiled, “For… Appreciation…”  
“You’re probably right. You’d want an audience, wouldn’t you? I’d be a fan, for sure. I’d be a proper one; saving newspaper articles, making posters to put on my wall; all that.”  
“Such… Such a shame… I’m not a murderer…” Sherlock smirked sarcastically.  
“Oh, come on. I’m sure you think about that idiot Anderson being murdered all the time. Don’t act like you haven’t. I’ve seen the footage; he is infuriating! If it wasn’t enough to be dreadfully boring and stupid; he calls my Sherlock a freak!” Moriarty held an exaggerated expression of shock.  
“What… What do you… care?” Sherlock asked; the drug’s haze was lifting.  
“I care a lot Sherlock; more than you know…” Moriarty smiled and came closer. Sherlock could see him now. He was sharply dressed in a Westwood suit and tie, obviously made an effort for meeting Sherlock.  
“Is… Is that right?” Sherlock smiled smugly.  
“But that isn’t going to stop me doing what’s going to happen now…” With a snap of the criminal’s fingers, a group of burly men came into the dark room. “Get him, boys.”  
Kicks, punches, pulling of hair; all were included. The pain was intense and blood speckled and oozed into puddles on the ground. Broken nose, three crack ribs, laceration to the forehead and a very mild concussion. Another snap of Moriarty’s fingers called the goons away.  
“Aw, Sherly… It’s ok. It’s only a fairy-tale. Go to sleep; more of the story tomorrow.” And go to sleep is what Sherlock did.  
...  
Mycroft looked over to little Sherlock to find the boys eyes attempting to drift shut. “It is also what you should be doing, Sherlock. Goodnight.”  
The lights were turned off, the door closed, Sherlock asleep. Mycroft prayed for another cloudy day. Curse the good weather! Sherlock was in pain and Mycroft didn’t like not being able to do a thing about it. Tomorrow, with any luck, would be better. Sherlock will be fine.


	6. Let go, Lestrade!!!

A storm? Seriously? What on earth was the weather doing these days? Was it purposely trying to hurt Sherlock? Ridiculous explanation, of course, but it was so frustrating! For another thing, it also meant that the boys’ parents would only be delayed even more for coming home. That was an interesting thought; mummy and father home…  
Sherlock was in Mycroft’s bed, yet again; his duvet pulled over his head in an attempt to muffle the loud claps. “The lighting and thunderclaps are growing apart, Sherlock… The storm should die down soon,” Mycroft observed, staring out of a large window. Sherlock only whimpered.  
“I… I don’t like it…” Sherlock’s hands clutched at his hair under the duvet. Mycroft was definitely attached to Sherlock; he found himself losing his temper at the weather, of all things.   
Mycroft lowered himself onto the bed beside the quaking mound that was his brother. “I know Sherlock,” Mycroft kept his voice a whisper, “Judging by the length of time between the lightning and the thunder; it should probably only last another five minutes…”  
Mycroft was right. The storm came to a stop, more or less, five minutes later; though it felt like eons. Sherlock wearily lifted the covers; his hair messed from the static and his face red and blotchy. “There… It’s ok…” Mycroft placed a hand on Sherlock’s back.  
“Can you read to me again?” Sherlock whimpered again as he buried his small face into his older brother’s arm.  
“If you think you can manage it…” Mycroft whispered. Sherlock nodded into his arm.  
Within seconds the notebook was retrieved and open, Mycroft lazily studying the pages for the next place to read from.  
...  
The bomb squad had done their job. The bomb was defused and the explosives removed. London Bridge was saved. It was now time to save Sherlock.  
“Where did they go, Anderson?” Lestrade sighed. It was all Anderson’s fault; the least he could do was remember what he saw.  
“Uh…” Anderson started.  
“For the love of…!!! Anderson, if you say you can’t remember; Sherlock’s language will seem mild compared to mine and there will definitely be a visit to Accident and Emergency!” John exclaimed, almost like an all too loud growl.  
“No, I remember… It was definitely here… Or was it here…? Um…” Anderson tried to remember for John and Lestrade’s sake.  
A terrifying growl emitted from the back of John’s throat. He leapt at Anderson, ready to attack; only to find a hand gripping his shirt collar, holding him back. “Let go Lestrade!!!”   
“No, John. Sherlock is long gone; assault and the night in a cell aren’t going to change that. It may make you feel better, and Anderson may have had it coming for a long time now –”  
“Hey!” Anderson interjected, offended, if not wondering if that was actually true; which I can assure you it was.  
“Anyway. There is hope. It’s a long shot; but that hope is the British government, after all,” Lestrade put his free hand on John’s shoulder; but still not quite trusting the doctor enough to let go of his shirt.  
“Mycroft! Of course!” John gasped.  
“I just hope the stress won’t make him relapse. He’s come so far…” Lestrade folded his arms; not in a gesture of anger or defensiveness, but one of needing to protect himself, to avoid crumbling into dust at that terrifying thought.  
“He’ll be fine, Greg. I’m sure he will,” John smiled slightly. “Quickly now, we have waited long enough!”  
The other two followed. Anderson feeling obliged to help as he had caused this in the first place; Greg not arguing. They could at least use him as a distraction, a moving target for Moriarty’s snipers.  
The three jumped into a taxi and away they went.   
…  
“Sherlock!” Moriarty called in a light, airy, almost playful voice, “I’ve come to play!”  
“And what are we ‘playing’?” The tall, shadowed figure in the corner asked, voice dripping with sarcasm.   
“Deductions, of course!” Moriarty beamed in the low light, though the smile never reached his eyes.  
Sherlock’s senses sharpened at the word. Deductions. His favourite pass time. “Deductions?” he asked with a smirk and carefully concealed child-like glee.  
“I think we both know how you love it. But I’ve changed the game from you and your brother’s. If you get something wrong… I get to hit you.”  
Sherlock raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Really? What if I refuse the violent part?” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.  
“Oh, Sherlock. What’s the point if there’s no violence? Violence makes everything interesting!” Moriarty smiled, but it never reached his eyes.  
“Then what if I don’t play?” Sherlock sighed, disappointed.  
“I’ll call in the ‘gentlemen’ I did yesterday and they’ll beat you. It’s your choice, I guess; but my way is more fun.”  
“Fine. I’ll play.”   
“Good!” Sherlock could almost swear he saw a flicker of delight in the psychopath’s dead eyes. “Let’s begin!”  
“Would you like to skip the boring deductions? You know; right-handed, regular horse-rider –” Sherlock was interrupted by a sharp pain of contact and another to his chest which forced all six feet of the detective crashing to the floor.  
“Wrong!!!”  
“No! What do you mean ‘wrong’?!”   
“Both observations are WRONG!!!”  
“No! You hit me with your right hand; meaning it’s the dominant hand; and I can see the tale-tale muscular indicators –!”  
“WRONG!!!”  
The night when by. Sherlock continued to make correct deductions and Moriarty continued to tell him he was wrong, hitting Sherlock each time. The proud detective was balanced on a knife’s edge by the morning.


	7. It's just a cough...

Thank God. A cloudy day with no storms, no bright sunlight; nothing to cause little Sherlock anymore discomfort. Mycroft closed his eyes against the gentle breeze flowing through the room from the open window. Sherlock sat by his side, also enjoying the cool breeze.  
“Are you seeing your boyfriend today?” Sherlock whispered, smirking. There was the Sherlock Mycroft knew.  
“A little later on,” Mycroft whispered softly, “I can cancel if you want, though.”  
“Don’t be ridiculous. I like Gavin,” Sherlock whispered again. The brothers would probably speak in whispers all day to avoid making Sherlock feel worse. A few cloudy days were what they needed.  
“His name is Gregory, Sherlock,” Mycroft smiled. His brother only shrugged. “We might be able to finish that story today. I know it’s only seven pm, but you can get ready, I’ll finish the story and you can have an early night. It will be best for you to get as much sleep as possible…”  
Mycroft looked over to the chair Sherlock had been sitting in. It was now vacated and Mycroft heard a door slam – accompanied by a grimace, of course – from upstairs. Sherlock had obviously sprinted to his room to get ready at the word ‘story’.   
Mycroft chuckled at his, often eccentric, little brother. He was quite pleased with his first attempt at writing a story for Sherlock; it had actually managed to hold his interest.  
Five minutes later, Mycroft decided Sherlock should be dressed by then and headed to the little boy’s room.   
…  
The brothers found themselves in the same situation as the six previous evenings. Sherlock was slightly more relaxed than he had been – which was good.  
“Ready for the last chapter?” Mycroft smiled. Sherlock nodded.  
...  
Mycroft was in bed. He was rather weary after his visit to the crime scene and was taking the advice that Greg so often gave him – he was going to ‘take it easy’.  
An urgent knock on the door followed by Lestrade, John and Anderson barging into his room surprised him; his surprise soon turned to shock as he saw Lestrade’s eye. “Gregory? What happened –?”  
“I’m afraid we don’t have time, Myc. Sherlock’s…” Lestrade took a breath.  
“Sherlock’s been abducted…” John interjected. Mycroft sat bolt upright, shocked.   
“What?”   
“It was all my fault, Mr Holmes! He wouldn’t have ignored his deductions if it wasn’t for me!” Anderson panicked.  
“So you’re the worthless man who has made my brother ignore deductions? The one who taunts him.” Mycroft’s eyes narrowed to knife-edge sharpness.  
“Yes.” Came the simple reply.  
“It is people like you who do not deserve help from my brother. I, in all honesty, cannot understand why he takes the abuse. But we have more urgent matters to attend. If someone could pass me my laptop, which is just on the desk; I’m afraid I have, somewhat, over-exerted myself today…”  
“Oh, Myc.” Lestrade sighed.  
“I’m fine, Gregory. But I do require my laptop if I am to help you find my dear brother.”  
“Here you go, Mycroft,” John stated plainly as he handed over the device filled with military secrets.  
“Now… If I can pull up the CCTV for that area, we might be able to track the perpetrator to Sherlock’s current location…” Mycroft muttered to no one in particular.   
After a minute or two, which felt like lifetimes, Mycroft found the footage he was looking for and surveyed it carefully. “I have it. Sherlock was dragged into an unmarked police car; I’m tracking it through CCTV now.”  
“So you actually are the British Government!” Anderson gasped.  
“I only occupy a minor –”  
“Let’s focus our priorities, Mycroft. No need to waste time on this idiot…” John interrupted.  
“Hey!”  
“Oh, shut up, Anderson,” Lestrade sighed.  
“There we are… An abandoned factory building on the outskirts of London; ten minutes’ drive away. I will send you the address.”  
“Come on, let’s go!” John called from the door before he ran to the police car which had brought them.   
“He’s picking up some bad habits from your brother, Myc. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Lestrade sighed before running after John with Anderson in tow.  
“Make sure he’s safe Gregory; his loss would break my heart…” Mycroft whispered to the empty room.  
...  
“Do you really think that, Myc.?” Sherlock questioned.  
“Of course I do, brother mine. We are like the only humans in a world of goldfish; I’d be left all on my own, for a start.”  
“Good thing you aren’t going to lose my then, isn’t it,” Sherlock smiled slightly.  
“A very fortunate thing indeed, Sherlock.”  
...  
“Who’s there?!” Sherlock questioned, hearing footsteps echo through the damp room.  
“Just me. I’m bored… I want something to do…” Moriarty answered from the shadows.  
“Don’t you have your thug… Moran, is it? To annoy?”  
“He’s an idiot. You are smarter than him by a long shot. I get so… lonely sometimes. So bored. No one I know is as intelligent as I am, Sherlock. That’s part of the reason why I was so anxious to meet you; you understand the loneliness…”  
“I’m not lonely, though. I have never been lonely.”  
“We both know that’s not quite true. You did have Mycroft; but then he stopped talking to you because he didn’t care –”  
“That isn’t true! I thought it was, but it isn’t! He was ill! He was dying!”  
“He was ill and he only told his brother when he was on his death bed? Doesn’t sound very caring to me…”  
“He did care! He always made sure I was alright!”  
“He watched you so he could tear you down. Make you feel like nothing. Pick up on your smallest mistakes so he could parade them in front of you for fun.”  
“No. Myc cares!” Myc. The childhood nickname had not been uttered in years.  
“He said it himself Sherlock; caring is not an advantage.”  
“The illness is proof. He worries about me constantly. I caused that illness by being the reckless person I am and being so distant. I know he cares really.”  
“Are you sure? Then how come he hasn’t found you yet? Come to think about it… Shouldn’t John have come by now? No. How utterly stupid of me… He doesn’t care either, not really. You’re just an adrenaline source for him, nothing more. After all… who could love the freak?”  
Sherlock launched himself at the criminal. Moriarty laughed manically; eyes dead and emotionless as Sherlock pinned him against the cold, cement ground. “People do get so sentimental about their pets.”  
“Shut up! Just shut up! John is not my pet, we’re equals!”  
“Are you, though? Are you really? We both know that’s not quite true. He’s your sidekick.”  
“No! He isn’t!”  
“He seems to think so… You treat him as such…”  
“Shut up!”  
“Tut, tut, Sherlock. All this emotion. I thought you were a sociopath? You always hid your emotions… Unless it’s to do with that brother of yours, Mycroft. You punched the DI pretty hard when you found out about their personal lives… John Watson’s spoiled you, hasn’t he? He made you feel.”  
“And I thank him for it –”  
“No. No, you don’t. You think you should be grateful; but you hate it, I can tell. He ruined you. You were perfect.”  
“No I wasn’t! I was a broken, unfeeling machine!”  
“Perfection is in imperfection. You were perfect to me.”   
“No, I was missing a vital cog in my machinery… A heart, I dare say.”  
“What is it with you and that ‘machine’ analogy?”   
“I assume I find so much favour with it because it has been the constant theme of scathing remarks and abuse spat at me all these years. It must be written into my hard-drive.” The detective smirked. He could almost reach the gun in Moriarty’s pocket…  
“Oh that's clever. That's very clever. Awfully clever. But, tell me Sherlock… Where is your heart now? John isn’t coming…”  
That was all the motivation Sherlock needed. He forced his arm down on Moriarty’s throat. “He is coming!”  
“No he’s not,” Moriarty managed to choke out.   
The next movement had to be fluid. Sherlock body slammed down onto Moriarty, reaching the gun and removing it from his pocket like Excalibur from its stone. Pushing to his feet, he aimed at Moriarty. If no one came soon, he’d be forced to pull the trigger. “It would be better for you if they did come right about now…” Sherlock snarled.  
Moriarty let out an insane cackle. “Well, you’d be able to walk out of here, Moran and my other little underlings are out for the night; but you don’t want it to come to murder, do you? And besides; staying alive; it’s so boring! Just… Staying…”  
“You’re insane.”  
“Just getting that now?”  
At that moment, the door burst open. A swarm of government agents and Scotland Yard filled the room. “Impeccable timing, Gavin, Mycroft. I thought I might actually have to kill him for a minute there…”  
“Put the gun down, brother mine…” Mycroft sighed, leaning heavily against Lestrade.  
“And it’s Greg, for the last time!” Lestrade added.  
Sherlock laid the gun on the floor and stepped towards John; who at that precise moment was being dragged off Moriarty, having already caused some damage judging by the blood Moriarty was coughing up.  
“Calm down, John. My brother will… dispose of him…” Sherlock smiled.  
“Didn’t want to let him have all the fun,” John smirked.  
“Dinner?”  
“Starving.”  
And that is how they left the scene in search of a restaurant. A few minutes later, residents of that area reported a single gunshot being heard; only to change their minds an hour later, saying it must have been the television next door, or some equally weak excuse. And Mycroft and Lestrade were seen entering a church for a few hours on Monday morning; Goodness knows why. If asked, the minister would swear blind it was a confessional; but even men of God can be persuaded to lie.

The end.  
...  
“Well… Not a great work of literature, I’m sure you’ll agree, Sherlock,” Mycroft sighed as he closed his notebook.  
“I liked it! It was interesting!” Sherlock smiled. “Thank you, Myc.”  
“That’s quite alright, Sherlock. Get some rest, you’ll need to recover by Sunday because mummy and father are coming home and they’re bringing…” Mycroft mockingly shuddered, "Guests…”  
Sherlock made a noise that vaguely resembled an annoyed growl crossed with a grimace. “Why?”  
“Business.” Sherlock only sighed in response, shuffling further into his bed.  
As his eyes drifted shut, Sherlock whispered, “Goodnight, Myc.”  
“Goodnight Sherlock,” Mycroft smiled slightly as he pressed a small kiss into his brother’s dark curls.  
A few minutes passed of Mycroft silently watching his brother sleep. “I worry about you,” Mycroft barely whispered, “Constantly.”  
When Mycroft was safely out of Sherlock’s bedroom, he braced himself on the wall; hit by a sudden wave of exhaustion. A terrible coughing fit shock the whole of his body as he slid down the wall; head lolling from side to side. “It’s just a cough,” Mycroft thought to himself, “It’s a cough, that is all it is.”

~The end~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! So, this is it! MAY write a sequel one of these days, but I have tons of other projects going on.   
> Please review! I'd love to hear your thoughts.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! Mystrade is one of my OTPs... just saying...


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